


Remembering Nigel

by theoriginaldylan



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoriginaldylan/pseuds/theoriginaldylan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicholas is brooding.  He will never forget.  Warning:  hopelessly romantic!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering Nigel

I keep my memories close to my heart and at the forefront of my mind. They are precious; the images, sounds, and smells of the man I have loved for two decades. No one can take these memories from me; there is nothing that could happen in my life to dislodge them from my brain. They are branded inside me now, from years of recollection and musing. Even though he is gone from my life, my memories of him will never flicker or fade. 

I don’t often think about the sex. Yes, we had plenty of it over the years; our bodies tangled together in twisted sheets, our voices loud with the moans and cries of pleasure. Those were wonderful times, and as I remember them a smile will cross my face and I’ll shiver with the thought of the orgasms we shared. I may even touch myself over those memories, releasing into my hand in the loneliness of my bedroom, crying out into the pillow as I relive the times our bodies became one.

Rather I think most about the other, more significant details of our times together. The way his hair fell across his forehead, the color of his eyes when he was sad, the small scars on the soles of his feet that I would touch lightly with my finger, causing him to double up with laughter as he begged me to stop tickling him. I remember the tilt of his chin when he played on stage and the fit of his tailored suits over his thin frame. And most importantly, I remember the way he smiled. He smiled for the cameras, he smiled for the fans, he smiled for his friends and his family…but there was one smile that I knew he reserved just for me.

We could be at a party with hundreds of people and I would spy him across the room, talking, laughing and smiling with friends or our band mates. And he would turn, the smile still on his face, and catch my eye. And that smile would change. He would give me the contented look of a man spying his lover. His eyes would appear to sigh, an expression of relief crossing them as he gazed at me. His lips would relax the tiniest bit, an acknowledgement of the comfort and ease and years of friendship we had together that meant he could be himself, and didn’t have to pretend to smile, or feign to laugh…his smile told me everything that he could never say in words.

And that smile melted me every time. I often averted my eyes as a blush crossed my cheeks, only to look up again and find him lifting an eyebrow at me, teasing me. And sometimes he would run his tongue across his lips, his expression turning to one of lust and desire, his eyes deepening into a gaze of seduction.

I remember the first time I saw him offer me that special smile. Back in Birmingham we would often sit at the kitchen table in his house for hours, reading music magazines and commenting occasionally on interesting articles and about shows that we might want to see. We were such easy friends in those years. We didn’t have to occupy one another’s time and attention constantly, or engage in conversation during every moment together. We could sit quietly, lost in our own worlds and thoughts and separated by the hard table yet with one another still, sharing the air and space of the kitchen and merely existing together.

We had been doing this for years. But once I became a teenager I found myself looking up at him more often than I used to, stealing quick glances at his face and musing over the concentration in his expression. One day I stared at him for a few minutes, my eyes roving over his cheekbones, his chin, the eyeglasses that he would constantly push up his nose with one finger. His hair fell over his face, shielding him partially, and his hand came up to swipe the hair out of his eyes and then fell back to his magazine, alighting on the words of the article that he was engrossed in. And I watched his eyebrows furrow, his lips part and move slightly…his hand went up to his mouth and he rested his thumb on his lips, and then started chewing on the ragged nail as he squinted his eyes at the page in front of him.

I felt something stir inside me then; small signs of sexual desire in the pit of my stomach and around my groin. I felt my heart clench in my chest and my breathing became faster, and my body felt too warm and my skin too sensitive. The walls of the kitchen seemed to close in around me, making our shared space smaller, urging us closer together…

His mum came in then to prepare tea. He dropped his hand and smiled up at her as she ruffled his hair. I dropped my eyes quickly back to my magazine and then risked a glance in her direction, hoping and praying that she hadn’t seen the way I was gazing at her son.

Some weeks later I found myself gazing at him again across the same table. I didn’t mean to; I had promised myself that I would keep my eyes fixed to my magazine, that I wouldn’t steal glances at him anymore. The desire I had felt scared me terribly. I didn’t understand why looking at him had made me feel that way. I was fifteen years old, and I knew only that girls were supposed to make me feel sexual desire, and I didn’t understand that boys could make me feel that way, too. On that day he had said something to me and I looked up at him to acknowledge his words. He stared at me as he spoke, but I couldn’t tell you a word of what he said. He was terribly excited and his cheeks were flushed and his lips were rosy and he had taken off his glasses, grasping an arm in hand and flinging them around as he spoke. I could see his eyes clearly, the brown color assaulting me across the table, the sparkle in his pupils distracting me from whatever he was trying to convey.

I remember mumbling some agreement to acknowledge his words, and then he nodded with satisfaction and slipped on his glasses, fixing his shielded eyes back down at his magazine. He tucked some errant hair behind his ear and as he dropped his hand, I saw a flush on the tip of his ear. I became transfixed by this small part of his flesh. I could see wisps of hair shuddering around the exposed skin and I wanted to climb across the table and push them back into place. I wanted to caress his ear and see if it was warm from his excitement, to see if he radiated heat from that spot on his body. And finally, I had the urge to take his earlobe into my mouth, and taste his skin with my lips and tongue.

I sensed movement and realized that he had lifted his head and was looking at me. I started to avert my eyes but instead I looked right into his. Even now I don’t know where I found the courage to do that. I knew that the desire would be on my face and in my expression; I knew that my cheeks were flushed and I could feel tiny beads of sweat at my hairline. He was two years older than me, after all, and a part of me understood that he would recognize an expression of lust the moment he spied it.

I don’t know what he saw on my face, but his expression showed confusion, and then fear, and then understanding. Then his eyes became soft and his lips started to move, turning up at the corners and exposing his teeth. He tilted his chin down but kept his eyes looking into mine, and he smiled.

My heart pounded in my chest and I thought I might faint right down into my magazine. I was scared out of my mind when I saw that smile. It was so comforting, understanding, and so damn loving. I knew my face had turned bright red and that my eyes were wide and frightened. But still he smiled at me. And then he turned his eyes back down to his magazine, just as his cheeks started to flush and his own breath started to come faster.

I turned back to my magazine and concentrated on controlling my breathing. His mum came in the room then, and provided a wonderful distraction for both of us. Something changed between us then, although it took another five years for either of us to recognize what it was.

* * * 

He’s gone now. I don’t know for how long, but I think it will be many years, at least. I have known him longer than anyone else in my life. After a certain number of years together I thought that we would be in each other’s lives forever. I used to have dreams and fantasies of growing old with him, living out our last days in some small house on the outskirts of London, existing with one another as we did in our early years, reading across a table and commenting to each other on interesting passages. Maybe he would wear glasses again; perhaps even I would succumb to the myopia of the aged and have to wear a similar accessory. Regardless, we would be together, and I could gaze at him from over my magazine or book, above the rim of a pair of spectacles, waiting for him to catch me spying, and give me one of his smiles.

I don’t entertain these dreams anymore. I was much younger when I pondered such things. We were in our twenties then, caught up in the whirlwind of fame and fortune and being teenage heartthrobs. We had come together as lovers when I was twenty and he was twenty-two, during our second trip to America. It happened naturally, with no hesitation and no fear. We were both inexperienced and clumsy, but that made it more special; for me, at least. Together we explored the bodies of men, something we had never done with anyone else. And something that neither of us has done with another man since.

That’s one sexual memory that I ponder often. I think about it and feel the joy of two people coming together after years of unspoken want and desire. I think about our hands and lips and feel the simple pleasure of experiencing something for the very first time. When I think of us on that night I don’t shiver with desire and lust; I only feel tenderness, passion, and love.

I don’t remember which one of us started it. I don’t think either of us did, really. I remember going to his hotel room while we were in New York to talk to him. I remember that he was feeling sad and lonely that night; that the stresses of being on tour in America and being far from home were starting to weigh heavy on his heart and mind. I remember comforting him, holding him and reassuring him. And I remember him thanking me, telling me how glad he was that I was a part of his life, and that we had embarked on this brave journey together.

I remember our lips coming together. We didn’t talk about it, we didn’t ask one another if this was something we should be doing…we just did it. We didn’t hesitate at all. At one moment our foreheads were pressed together as he confessed his fears and his loneliness and his gratitude that I was with him, and in the next moment our mouths were sealed together, our lips and tongues moving against one another as we expressed our gratitude in a deeper, more intimate manner.

I remember sealing my hands against his neck, feeling the heat of his skin and the sweat starting to gather there. I remember moving my hand over his ear, squeezing the flesh and moaning into his mouth as I felt the heat emanating from that small part of him that I had been gazing at so deeply when I was fifteen years old. I felt his hands come around my waist and press into my back, pulling me closer to him so our chests were pressed together. I plunged my fingers into his hair and pressed at his scalp and then he pulled me even closer, so that I could feel his erection pushing against my stomach.

I moaned his name in the midst of our kiss. He broke away from me but kept his hands firm on my back, holding me against him, pinning me to the physical evidence of his desire. He looked at me, into my eyes, and whispered, “I want to be with you, Nicholas.”

They were such simple words. The sentence held no complexity and no cause for misunderstanding. He wanted me, just as I had wanted him for five long years. I had kept that desire firmly in check over time, burying it deep down inside myself. He had offered me many smiles over the years and although I had hoped they meant something deeper than the friendship I knew we shared, I didn’t think there would ever be a time that he would want something more. I had witnessed his first forays into dating and sex and I had gone on my own path with many women. We had even talked about our adventures, confiding in one another as men about the joys of being with women.

I realized in that hotel room that he had been hiding his own desire for me. He had been just as confused as I was over the years, and had buried his feelings deep inside himself.

When the words fell from his lips I shuddered and a sob escaped my throat. His voice was so deep and loving and it touched me in a place that no one else had ever touched. This was my dearest friend, the object of my unspoken desire, and he wanted the same thing that I did.

I responded to him with gestures instead of words. I pulled his head down to mine and parted his lips with my tongue, pushing into him and caressing the inside of his mouth. I pressed my body hard against him, pushing my own erection into his thigh, showing him with my body that I wanted him just as much as he wanted me.

And so we made love. We did everything we could in that first night. We didn’t take it slow, and we saved nothing for another time. We were so young then and so energetic! We gave each other orgasms in every way we could imagine. I remember that the first time he touched me with his hand, he broke our kiss and he looked into my eyes. His fingers roved over my trousers, light at first and then pushing with more and more pressure. He started rubbing me over the cloth, staring into my eyes the whole time and watching my face as it displayed to him the pleasure he gave me. He averted his eyes only to undo my button and pull down my zipper, and then he looked back into my face as he reached inside my underclothing and wrapped his hand around my penis. I gasped loudly and moaned his name, and in response he smiled. A big, wide, and strangely innocent grin spread across his face. He leaned down and kissed my nose, and then nuzzled his lips into my neck as he brought me to a swift, powerful climax. He kept his hand on me, seeming to massage my semen into my skin. I panted up at the ceiling and I felt his lips and tongue brush my ear and his hair tickling my face. He withdrew and I opened my eyes to see him looking at me with a serious expression. “It feels so different,” he said.

I didn’t know what he meant. The feel of another man’s cock, perhaps? I squinted at him and asked, “How do you mean?”

He looked down then, studying his hand, still wrapped around my penis. I was already getting hard again; I could feel tightness in my scrotum and a fluttering in my stomach as he continued to caress me. He looked back into my eyes and murmured, “Just different.”

I got embarrassed then. Ashamed, even. I started to doubt that he really wanted this. I started to think that he didn’t like it, that he had no desire to move forward. I thought that the simple fact that I was a man and so was he meant that he regretted it now; maybe he was comparing me to his female lovers of past and present and realized that touching another man just wasn’t something he wanted to do.

But his hand was still on my penis and my hips had started writhing on the bed in time to his motions. I swallowed hard and stared at him, trying to read his expression. His hand moved faster, urging me to become fully erect again. I had to say something, anything to try and figure out what was going through his mind. “Stop,” I said.

“You want me to?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow and pausing the movement of his hand as he waited for my reply.

“No,” I breathed. “But I think you want to.” I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to look at him anymore. I pressed my face to the side and into the pillow, trying to hide from him, not wanting him to see the shame that had overcome me.

He removed his hand and put it on my thigh, massaging me with tender squeezes. I felt his breath on my neck, and he whispered, “It’s different than anyone I have ever been with.” He kissed me then, pressing his warm lips onto my neck as his hand kept squeezing my thigh with reassurance. He drew back and said, “It’s better.”

I felt his body move away from me; his hand withdrew and I felt the bed shift as he changed position. His hand came down onto my chest, rubbing a nipple through my shirt, and then I felt his warm mouth engulf my penis.

That was only the beginning. All night we gave each other pleasure in every manner we could. When it was all over we were covered in sweat, saliva, and semen and our naked bodies were sore and bruised. We moved into my room, where we bathed one another and then slept amidst fresh, clean linen.

I remember he fell asleep before I did and I stayed awake for some time looking at him. He looked so peaceful in his slumber that night. Earlier he had been distraught and upset and now after our lovemaking and in his sleep he looked perfectly content. So innocent, even. Like the boy I knew in third grade; pale, lanky, clumsy, and impossibly shy. We were now so much older; men, even, or pretty damn close.

I lifted the sheets and looked at his body, absorbing as much as I could. At that time I didn’t know if it would ever happen again, if we would share the same intimacy with one another. And so I spent time memorizing him. I could tell you even now what I saw on that night: the delicate curve of his collarbone under pale skin, the dark tone of his hairless nipples, the way his nostrils fluttered as he breathed, the size and length of the crease in his skin where his shoulder folded his arm across his chest.

This is what I remember now. Those little details that only lovers know. I had another fourteen years to study him, and I did, every moment we were together. These are the memories I hold dearest. And sometimes I wonder if he does the same.

* * * 

He never said he loved me. I said it to him at the beginning, in the midst of making love. I never actually sat him down in conversation and said, “I love you.” I was too scared for that; too frightened that if we attached deep feelings to our acts together that he would run away from me somehow, or maybe I would run from him. But I did tell him while we were in bed. I told him as I sighed into his hair after he withdrew from my anus, feeling the last release of my orgasm course through my body. I said it into his sweat-soaked back when I penetrated him, thrusting my hips against him wildly as we reached our climaxes together. I breathed the words into the salty skin of his chest, neck, thighs, arms, forehead, chin… “I love you, I love you…”

I do love him. Take all our time together and distill it down to its purest form and it is one simple truth: I love him. I felt it when we were teenagers, when I snuck glances at him over my magazine. I felt it when we lay in bed together after our first lovemaking, looking at him and memorizing every part of his body. I feel it now, having known him for over twenty years, and after our friendship has so swiftly and suddenly come to its end.

Oh that sounds so dramatic. I don’t know if it’s ended, really. It’s on a vacation, however, for some indeterminate length of time. He’s made a home in Los Angeles, and now he’s left the band. And he came to England to tell me this in person, that he was leaving for good, and with his departure he was leaving me, as well.

I don’t want to talk about that yet. It’s still too fresh in my mind; the memory is recent, merely a few days old, and it still pains me. I would much rather think of the things in our past, the moments we shared and the love that we exchanged.

* * *

I stopped telling him I loved him after some time, because he never returned the sentiment; with words, at least. I was fairly sure he did love me, but he couldn’t tell me that, or he didn’t want to admit it. Little had changed between us, really. We had been friends for so long that our relationship was very solid. When we started making love it added a new element to our friendship, and the only thing that changed was that I now recognized his smiles as something more than just small expressions of happiness and joy. When he smiled at me I knew that he wanted me, he desired me, and perhaps he even loved me.

I can’t say that it didn’t affect us; it affected me, at least. When I realized he would never tell me he loved me, I grew disconcerted. I wanted that love, I needed it from him desperately. We were on the road constantly, at the height of our popularity, and we clung to one another for support. We went to bed with numerous women, channeling sexual energy into nameless exploits with groupies, models and the like. Yet we still came to one another, when we needed things that these women couldn’t give us: comfort, security, and the familiarity of an old friend.

I married Julieanne in a desperate attempt to lead a normal life. The band’s success had taken us to places we had never imagined, and many of those places were dark and frightening. When I met her she was amazingly persistent, more so than any other woman I had met. She convinced me that I needed her, and at the time I thought she was right. She provided me a comfort and support that I had never had from another woman, and she told me constantly that she loved me.

I didn’t mean to cast away my dear friend and lover; in fact he encouraged me to date her, and gave us his blessing when we married. It depressed me that he was able to throw me aside so carelessly. I wouldn’t know until years later that it hurt him to see me marry, that he suffered when we were apart and regretted the fact that he had encouraged us so strongly. At the time I just assumed it was over between us; that he had tired of it somehow, and was ready to move on.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. We did come together again, usually while we were on tour, in the dark corners of clubs and the safe seclusion of hotel rooms. It was draining on us both, though. I had a marriage to keep up and a new baby to attend to. We had to keep our love-acts secret; away from our mates and away from the press. Meanwhile he did too many drugs and indulged in too much alcohol, and the love I felt for him continued to fester in silence as I watched him spiral downwards into depression and addiction.

I remember he used to tell me he was sorry. He would bury his head into my shoulder and sob in my arms, saying, “I’m so sorry, Nick. So sorry.” I could only rock him and kiss his scalp, soothe him the best I could. I didn’t understand his pain; I couldn’t relate to what was happening to him. And so he sought out someone who could; and he married her.

I remember the look in his eyes when he told me. That was the only time he came close to confessing his feelings about our relationship. He stood apart from me, hovering near the front door to my home, looking guilty and scared. He opened his mouth and said, “I got married.” I nodded. It was all I could do in reply. I was having trouble in my own marriage and was getting ready to start the process of a divorce, and somehow I had hoped that he and I could be together completely, that after I separated from Julieanne, he and I could try and forge a relationship together; one of friendship, love, and partnership. At that point I didn’t care anymore what our friends would think or what the press would make of it or even my parents. I only wanted to try and make things better; for me, for him, and for us.

He cast his eyes down and looked at his feet. I think he expected me to say something, but there were no words I could summon. I felt my whole past rush towards me and I was assaulted by the memories of our early years of friendship and our later years of lovemaking. He stood there in front of me; dreadfully thin, sickly, depressed, and obviously lonely…so different from when I had known him years before. And he was telling me he got married! Not that he was getting married, not that he had even met someone, but that he had already been married, to some woman who I had never met, who supposedly knew him and understood him so well that he felt he had to marry her swiftly, and without the blessing of his friends. Or me.

All I wanted to do in that moment was take his arm, guide him into my living room, and sit across from him, reading a book. I just wanted him near me, with me, sharing my oxygen and my space, existing with me as we existed so easily years before. I wanted to look at him over the pages of my novel, and have him catch my eye, and smile.

He had no smiles left, it seemed. He stood looking at the floor, his hair concealing his face, hiding from me entirely. “Nick,” he said, and then took a deep breath and paused. The silence was thick and cloying, and I wanted then to turn and run, to flee from him as fast as I could and retreat back to Birmingham, to a table in a small kitchen surrounded by the smell of his mum’s tea brewing.

“Nick,” he said again, shaking his head. I stood shivering in the silence, scared of what he would say to me, scared of what he might confess in a desperate attempt to justify what he had done. “I couldn’t…” he began, and took another deep breath. “I always…I…” He lodged his hand in his hair and squeezed his scalp, as if he could push the words from his brain down to his mouth and out into the silent air between us.

I knew then what he was going to say. I had been waiting for it ever since the first night we made love. He was going to tell me he loved me, and I knew that I didn’t want to hear it. I knew he was saying it only because it was safe now, because he had moved on to a married life, and he was going to run away to her, and he was leaving me behind. He could say it now because it wouldn’t change anything; he had made his decision to commit to this woman and he knew that if he confessed his feelings for me, it wouldn’t alter the path he had chosen.

It wouldn’t change anything for him, but it would change me. I didn’t want to know how he felt. It would only hurt me and anger me to know that he had felt the same way all these years and had kept those feelings inside, only to unleash them at a time when we couldn’t act on them. “I…” he started again.

“Don’t,” I commanded, and held up my hand as he looked up at me with surprise.

“Nick, I…”

“Don’t,” I said again, this time more firmly. I felt the tears build behind my eyes and I tried to hold them back; but they fell anyway, sliding down my cheeks and making a slow course towards my chin.

“I…” he whispered, but he paused, seeing the pain on my face.

“Please,” I begged, my voice breaking with a sob. I couldn’t hold anything inside; I cried openly with my palm still pressed out to him, the gesture halting his words. “I love you. And if you feel the same, you’ll turn around and leave, without another word.” My words were soft but firm. It was so hard for me to say that to him, but I needed to do it. I desperately needed him to be out of my sight, and not hear his confession. I already knew how he felt; and I thought it might kill me if I heard it with his own voice.

His eyes glazed over with tears to match my own. But he nodded, biting his lip against any more words that he might say. He dropped his hand from his head and turned, but before he disappeared from my view I caught the sad, tortured expression on his face.

That was the closest he had ever come to saying he loved me. Many times before he had said, “I’m glad we are together,” or “I’m so thankful you are in my life,” or even “I hope we are together for many years to come.” But never, ever, those three simple words: _I love you._  And at the one time that he was going to confess it, I stopped him. I did it to save myself, and in that I believe I was successful.

* * *

I moved on as best I could. I indulged in countless women; beautiful birds in expensive clothing draped over my arm at public functions. They always looked marvelous, and I always feigned happiness. None of them ever satisfied me the way I needed, and I never expected them to. I was lonely and I used them to fill a void that I knew could never be filled. I tried, though. I came close once; with a marvelous woman who did capture my heart and mind for a brief time. But she knew there was someone else I thought about, and she grew tired of the unspoken competition.

Meanwhile the band labored in the studio and I found myself having to work with my friend and ex-lover. We still talked, we still ventured out together, we still leaned on one another for comfort and support. And he still smiled at me. That was one thing his marriage could never take away; those special smiles that spoke volumes about his feelings. He gave them to me on stage, in the studio, across crowded rooms…and every time I felt the world fade away around me and felt the closeness and intimacy that we had once shared, sparked up again in that mouth and those eyes, giving me the hope that we would find each other once more; some time in this life or the next.

He came to me one night stricken with grief over problems in his marriage. He knew he had to get divorced, and it tore him up inside. I comforted him the best I could, knowing that inside I was selfishly happy about this turn of events.

I remember him leaning against my chest. I remember his hands clenching my shirt into his fists, twisting the fabric into knots as I rocked him and murmured soothing words into his hair. I remember resting my lips on his forehead, closing my eyes and breathing deep, taking in his scent in a way I hadn’t done in years.

And then I remember him kissing me. I know that’s the way it was; my memory is clear about this interlude. _He_  kissed _me_. He lifted his head, looked me in the eyes, and then without a word leaned into me and took my lips between his, locking onto them, sucking them, taking my tongue into his mouth and holding on just as his hands clutched onto my shirt.

I returned the kiss savagely, bearing down on him with my mouth, lips and tongue. I pushed him down onto the bed and ravaged him. He offered himself to me, submitting underneath me; his whole body stretched out open across the bedspread, just for me.

It had been nearly three years since I had felt his body under mine. I wanted to experience every part of him; every single inch of skin covering his form. And he responded to my touch, seeming to want the same out of me. His hands roved down to my legs, pulling me down on top of him, and beneath me I felt his erection hard and urgent against my thigh.

“I want you, Nick, I’ve always wanted you…” he murmured, breathing the words into my mouth between the kisses we continued to share.

It was like the first time we were together back in 1982. We experienced pleasure in every way we could. We were older now, and we tired easily and didn’t have the same stamina we had had in our youth. But we persevered, and still managed to take one another in every way imaginable. And we were experienced now, after years of being lovers the time we spent apart couldn’t make us forget what it was that pleasured each other most.

When I entered him I shivered and I thought my body would break apart with the sensations that coursed through me. Nothing could compare to having my lover’s anus clamp around my penis, the muscle contracting with pleasure as I eased in and out of him, his body beneath me shuddering and convulsing. I was with the man I had always been destined for, and no other person, man or woman, could reproduce the pleasure he gave me.

When he entered me I sighed with relief. I had forgotten how wonderful it felt to have him inside me; he fit me perfectly, and his penetration felt only comfortable and natural. Every thrust of his hips sent me into spasms of pleasure and when he collapsed on top of me, holding my body next to his in a firm embrace, I buried my head into his chest and relished the simple fact that we were together once again.

* * *

Our bliss was short-lived. He went back down into depression and addiction, and later he discovered his final path: sobriety, recovery, a change in his lifestyle that would help him be well.

I was happy for him. I loved him and only wanted the best for him. We rarely made love and didn’t talk much; he had started retreating to his other, sober life in Los Angeles. I did my best to understand his choices and I supported him in every way I could.

He didn’t smile at me the way he had always done before. That’s when I knew that everything had changed. Even during the times we weren’t lovers I still had that smile to bring me hope. But at this time, close to our end, I would catch him gazing at me with a look of sadness and fear. I tried to talk to him about it but he didn’t want to discuss it. He became more and more distant, from all of us.

It was just a few days ago he came to me. I had no idea he was in England and it was a surprise to see him at my door. It had been months since we had been alone together; he had come to England only for recording sessions and had always fled immediately afterwards.

I knew he needed time so I never argued with him about his behavior. He had been through a good deal of pain and sadness and I respected his need for space. I was sure that he would come back to me; that we would sit down and talk, be friends as we had always been, and return to being lovers over time.

I didn’t think that time would come so soon. I didn’t think that a few days ago, fourteen years after we had come together for the first time in 1982, he would be knocking on my door.

Oh god, I don’t want to think about this. This new memory hurts too much. I prefer to brood over the other memories; I want to think about my lips pressed against his spine or my hands clutching his hips, curled around the round bones and using them to press him closer to me. I want to think about the little hairs below his navel that stand up straight when he’s sexually excited. I want to think about the soft skin on his forearms and how it felt to tickle him there and hear him squeal with laughter. I want to think about his smile; the way his chin tilted downwards, the way his cheeks became fuller, the way his brown eyes turned soft with comfort and love.

* * *

“We need to talk,” he said, as soon as he had walked through the door. He looked tired and disheveled, as if he had just left an airplane and come straight to my house. I remembered the last time he had said those same words; back in 1992 right before he confessed that he had married Amanda.

I looked up at him and his eyes were full of fear. He was nervous, and I knew that whatever he needed to say to me would be difficult; for both of us.

“Would you like…” I started, and then realized that I couldn’t offer him a “drink” anymore. We wouldn’t be sharing wine or brandy on this day. It was, however, the perfect time of day for “…tea?” I raised my eyebrows at him.

He nodded and I escaped into the kitchen, waving my hand in the direction of the living room and telling him to make himself comfortable.

I put the water on the stove and then stood grasping the kitchen counter. I started shaking, the memories washing over me and consuming my mind and body. I couldn’t remember the last time we had been alone together; had it been six months? A year?

I heard movement and sensed him lurking somewhere behind me; leaning against the doorjamb, perhaps. I took a deep breath and made myself busy, taking down the teapot and a can of loose tea. “I didn’t know you’d be in England,” I said, keeping my eyes on my hands as they made the preparations.

“No one knows,” he said. “Except you.”

I stopped and stared at the stove, hoping the water would boil and provide me another distraction. I didn’t want to turn around and face him; I didn’t want him to see the fear and nervousness that coursed through me.

“Did you just arrive?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I came straight from Heathrow.”

I did turn then. His voice sounded sad and far away, and I wanted to look at him, digest him, regard him and see from his expression what might be going on inside his mind. He had his hands lodged in his pockets and he chewed on his lower lip. The fearful look I had spied at the front door was still there, clouding his brown eyes. His clothes were wrinkled and his face was shadowed by stubble. His bangs fell around his face, not obscuring him, but framing his features in a delicate curve. “You can freshen up, if you like.” I kept my voice flat and perhaps too cold and too distant, not wanting my emotions to show through my words. “You know where the bathroom is.”

I turned back to the counter, wanting to avert myself from those fearful eyes. My hands were still shaking and I couldn’t bear to stand there under his scrutiny.

I heard him leave. He went outside to his car, and I heard the door open and close again as he came back inside. I heard his heavy steps on the stairs, retreating up to the bathroom. I sighed, putting my head in my hands, thankful for being left alone so I could compose myself.

* * * 

I sat on the couch and he sat across from me in a chair, sipping his tea. The shower had relaxed him; the fear in his eyes had lessened. And the time had calmed me as well. My hands didn’t shake as I sipped my own tea; I was composed, and ready to listen to what he had to say.

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

He shrugged and replied, “Hotel.” I nodded in acknowledgement. “I’m only here for one night, Nick.”

My cup shook when he said my name. Something in the timbre of his voice touched me inside; stirring up more memories of experiences we had shared together over the years.

“I came just to talk to you.” He let the statement hang in the air as he stared at me, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t move a muscle. I kept my face frozen, my hand in midair in transit from the table to my lips. I stared back at him, waiting.

He frowned at me. He searched my face, trying to read me. But I showed him nothing. I presented him a stone expression, the only barrier I knew how to erect when faced with an adversity. It was my protection, my security, and I didn’t want him to breach it with just his eyes.

I knew I would break if he smiled at me. But he didn’t. He frowned, and he put his tea on the table between us, and then sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he exhaled he opened his eyes, only to find me in the same stony, paralyzed posture. “I’ve leaving the band.”

I didn’t move. Not a damn inch. I was afraid of reacting to this, I was afraid that if I opened my mouth I would say things that he didn’t want to hear. I was afraid that I might scream. I was afraid that I might throw my tea at him. Countless thoughts flew through my mind, but the only thing that I understood with complete clarity was that if he left the band, he would also be leaving me.

He bit his lip and hung his head, looking down at his hands as they fidgeted on his lap. “I wanted to make sure you were the first to know. I didn’t want you to find out through rumors.”

I moved very carefully. I put my cup down on the table, taking care not to spill it all over the carpet or myself. My hands were shaking again, and I had trouble keeping myself still. Thankfully he kept his eyes averted, and he didn’t look back up at me until I had settled into the couch with my face in my hands.

“Nicholas…”

I dropped my hands then and looked at him and I tried to steel myself against the emotions that were racing through me. “Thank you for telling me,” I said. I knew my voice was cold and distant again but I couldn’t say it in any other tone.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

Silence hung between us. His face fell into an expression of sadness and it broke my paralysis. I closed my eyes and let my own face tell him exactly what I felt: fear, sadness, and loss. I hung my head and let my emotions free, allowing them to mold my face into the expressions he expected from me.

I heard him move, and I heard him shuffling cups across the table. And then I felt his fingers on my chin, guiding my head upwards. I opened my eyes to find him sitting on the table, staring at me.

“It isn’t because of you,” he murmured, his eyes roving my face. He dropped his hand from my chin and placed it on my knee, squeezing once and then resting it there.

I already knew that he wouldn’t leave just because of me, but I was glad he reaffirmed it. I had given him plenty of space over the last few years; I had withdrawn just as much as he had, I had respected him and demonstrated my support and understanding for what he was going through. “I understand,” I replied, but I hung my head again and covered my face with my hands.

“Nick…” he breathed, and he clasped my wrists, tugging my hands down and away from my face. “Please don’t hide from me,” he said, and folded his fingers into mine, entwining us together.

I sniffled, holding back the tears that were threatening behind my eyes. I didn’t want to burden him with my own pain. He stared at me with his own sadness written all over his features. His beauty struck me then; his maturity, his growth, the way he had changed from that long ago time when we were boys. He seemed so much older, as if there were decades between us rather than the two years that separated our ages.

“I’m sorry I never told you how I felt,” he murmured, staring directly into my eyes.

“Let go of me,” I said, trying to wrench my hands free from him. I knew what was coming next and I didn’t wanted to face it; not now, not when he was leaving. He would unleash the words and then make his departure, and once again I felt it would serve neither of us any purpose.

He wouldn’t let me go. Instead he leaned forward, bringing his face closer to mine. He stopped just a few inches away from me and whispered, “I love you.”

I felt the tears fall down my face and I started to struggle harder with him, trying desperately to release my hands so that I could cover myself and hide from his intense stare. We fought only briefly; he refused to let me go and he kept saying it over and over again: “I love you, I love you, shhh, I love you…” pounding the words into my brain and forcing me to accept them.

I gave up and leaned forward, resting my head against his shoulder. I sobbed into him, unleashing the sadness and fear and desperation that had built up inside me. He released my hands finally and embraced me, holding me and soothing me.

After a few moments I withdrew and wiped my eyes with my sleeve. I tried to cover my face again but he moved quickly, intercepting me and pulling my hands down onto my lap, putting his fingers into mine and squeezing. He leaned forward and put his forehead against mine, closing his eyes and exhaling.

I didn’t know what to say. I had waited years for him to say those three simple words and when he finally confessed I couldn’t form any words to utter in response. I was so angry at him for holding the words inside and saying them only at this most dreadful time; but I was also relieved. Our love had been acknowledged; finally, it was open and honest between us. I felt his hair against my forehead and his breath mere inches from my mouth and I wanted desperately to kiss him; to respond to his confession with my lips.

“Thank you for letting me tell you that,” he said. “I should have told you a long time ago.” He sighed and withdrew, leaning back and away from me, still staring at me with his intense gaze. There was no trace of fear left in his eyes; he looked sad still, but there was no more nervousness in his expression. He clasped my fingers and massaged the back of my hands, looking into me.

“I should have told you that I think you’re beautiful.”

I rolled my eyes at him. He didn’t need to tell me anymore; he had told me all I ever needed to know, and it was enough to last for the rest of our lives. “You don’t have to…”

He leaned in closer, his eyes roving my face and settling on my lips. “I should have told you that your lips are soft.” I felt myself blush, thinking of the many places on his body that my lips had touched.

He lifted his eyes to meet mine, and then continued up and fixed his gaze at my hairline. He disengaged a hand and used it to smooth my hair back from my forehead, saying, “I should have told you that I love your hair blonde.” His hand settled on the back of my neck, and his eyes returned to meeting mine.

I laughed then; finally and joyously I laughed at his words. “Such a lie!” I teased. “You like me as a brunette.” I ventured a smile, but he didn’t return it.

Instead he said, “I should have told you that you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. And that no matter what has happened between us, you will always be closest and dearest to my heart.” He came forward and leaned his forehead once again against mine. His hand clenched around my fingers and the hand on my neck squeezed tightly.

“You really mean that?” I whispered.

I felt him nod against me and his eyelashes tickled my skin. “I should have told you…” he breathed, pausing. He sighed and whispered, “That I love to gaze into your eyes.” His hand shuddered on the back of my neck; for some reason this small confession was the most difficult for him to say. “They are the most beautiful goddamn eyes I have ever seen.” He sighed and his hand started massaging my neck, causing goose bumps to rise up all over my flesh. It was maddening being so close to him; everywhere he touched me I felt electric, the nerve endings hopping with desire.

He must have known what I was feeling. Because he shifted his head and leaned forward, caressing my neck with his lips.

“Stop,” I said, but I was too weak to push him away with my hands. I uttered this one word amidst quickened breath, my body responding to his touches even though my words tried to say otherwise.

“Why?” he asked, breathing the word onto my skin.

“Because tomorrow you’ll be gone.” I pressed my cheek against his, feeling the warmth of his skin against my flesh. I wanted him, but I had no desire to make love on this day when I knew that on the next he would disappear from the band and my life, off to live on his own so far away.

He pulled back and looked at me, and I saw his expression soften into one of teasing lust and desire. “Are you sure?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow at me. I felt the hand on my leg pull away from my fingers and start roving up my thigh, touching lightly and igniting my skin into small tingles of pleasure. He stared at me with that eyebrow raised, and then the corners of his mouth began to turn up. He lowered his chin, tilted his head ever so slightly, and he smiled.

He’s a bloody bastard. He must have known exactly how that smile would affect me. My body responded immediately; I felt warmth all over my cheeks and neck, and my breath became faster, audible now as it came in and out of my parted lips. I withered completely under his endearing expression; I became overcome by desire and I wanted desperately then for him to take me upstairs and make love to me.

He regarded me, he saw the effect he had on me, and his smile became broader; more endearing, more comforting, and more loving. He leaned into me and kissed my neck, over and over again. “Don’t…” I begged, but my words were without strength. I let him caress my neck but I kept my head turned aside, my mouth far away from him in case he decided to kiss me. I felt his hand dip underneath my thigh and then he moved downwards, seeking the back of my knee. I tried to shift my body to stop him but it was no use; the hand and lips on my neck kept me pinned to the couch, unable to move.

He grasped the back of my knee and started massaging me there, moving his hand in an even, seductive rhythm. Before I could stop myself I moaned, and in response his lips moved faster over my skin, matching the rhythm of the hand on my leg. My sexual need overpowered any rational thought I might have had so that when he lifted his lips to seek out mine, I turned my head and accommodated him. His hand fell from my neck and grasped me between the legs, and when he felt my erection he gasped into my mouth.

I’d love to say it was the best sex we’ve ever had. I’d love to say that my climaxes rendered me speechless and left permanent impressions on my body and mind. I’d love to spew forth endless words of romance, love and devotion and talk about how our worlds exploded and the heavens parted and angels sung hymns above our bed.

I can’t say any of those things. Yes, we made love. We went upstairs to my bedroom and explored each other once again. We were slow, careful, tender, and loving. We tired quickly and spent many hours just lying together and talking. But it wasn’t an interlude full of singing angels; it was a bittersweet evening. I knew he would be leaving the next day, and I knew that he would be separating himself physically and mentally from the band, from England, and from me.

What I think about most about that night is how we talked. He confessed much more to me over the time we spent together. He had known how I felt about him ever since that day in his kitchen when I was fifteen. He told me that he had been fiercely jealous of Julieanne, but he encouraged me because he thought it was what I wanted, and only ever wished me happiness in whatever I chose. He apologized over and over again for how he behaved when he was intoxicated, saying that he had hurt me, and he hadn’t meant to, and that he needed to know if I could ever forgive him.

We talked about his sobriety. He said he went back to work with the band too quickly after his rehabilitation, that he should have spent more time for himself in those early days and that was why he had to leave now, so quickly and suddenly. Working with us had been draining him, and reminded him constantly of the days he spent drinking and doing drugs and having sex with groupies on the road. He said it was painful, and that if he wanted to stay healthy and clean he had to focus on his new life in California.

He said he loved me and that he didn’t want to leave me. He said that he wished he could keep this part of his old life with him. But his resolve and dedication was firm: I was a part of his old, destructive lifestyle. He wanted me in his life but he wanted more that I stay working with the band; he didn’t want me to change my own life just for him.

I didn’t beg and cry and plead with him; I accepted his words and respected his decisions. We’ve known each other for over twenty years. How could I tell him that he was being foolish and selfish and arrogant? He wasn’t any of those things, even though to others it may seem that way. He was simply doing the things that were healthiest for him. And if I wanted to help him, if I wanted to show my love for him, I had to let him go.

* * * 

I feel like our lives have always steered the wrong course with one another, that somehow we keep missing the opportunities that present themselves. What if I told him I loved him when I was fifteen? What if I had demanded that we talk about our relationship back before I met Julieanne? What if I had let him confess his love to me in 1992? What if…what if…what if…

And what if I had said no the other night; if I had held him back from seducing me and merely requested that he sit across from me, on the chair with his legs on the coffee table, sipping tea and reading a book so that I could just gaze at him and memorize every movement of his face and hands?

My home has never felt so empty. In that night we shared I understood just how much he meant in my life, how important it was to have him at the other end of a phone line, or across a room, or in a hotel suite, or in my own home. He should be in my life, as a friend or a lover; we have known each other too long to ever be apart.

But now for the first time in our years of friendship we _are_  truly apart. I wonder if we will ever come together again; as friends or as lovers. I wonder if he will find a new companion in Los Angeles, or perhaps if he has already found one. I wonder if he will ever need me again, as he did years ago when he was lonely and sad.

And I wonder how long I will brood over these memories.

Damnit, he shouldn’t be in America. He should be right here, with me, in my life and in my heart. I told him I understood his decision, and I will respect his choices and I will never, _ever_ let myself regret anything that transpired between us. I won’t plead with him; I won’t let his departure affect my future with the band or the course of my life. I will not try and contact him, I will not mourn him, I will not cry myself to sleep every night wishing he was lying beside me.

But still the fact remains that he should be here. When two people love one another, they should be together. He should be right here, sitting across the table with his nose in a magazine or a book, letting me look at him with the love and desire I have always felt. And he should be glancing up at me, offering me a special smile, the warm look that he reserves just for me.

He’s not here, though, and I will have to wait and see how our lives will come together again. I will have to be patient, and I will have to possess resolve and commitment in order to push my own life forward.

Meanwhile I have my memories. And I can imagine him sitting across from me, showing me that smile. No one can take away these images and sounds and smells…they are mine. And I will cherish them, for as long as it takes until our lives converge once more.


End file.
